


Brothers!

by Zana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arwen and Eowyn friendship, Becoming mortal, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:32:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zana/pseuds/Zana
Summary: Queen Arwen helps Lady Eowyn, and finds her own voice in the process.





	Brothers!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fernstrike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/gifts).



The Queen of Gondor entered the chambers of Lady Eowyn quietly. The two women had agreed to spend a relaxing evening _not_ talking about her friend’s marriage, two days hence, to the newly-made prince Faramir of Ithilien. The preparations were well in hand, but Eowyn – when not distracted by her love – had become a bit strained and white about the mouth when it came to the wedding.

“I don’t understand it,” Arwen had said just yesterday in this very room, a veritable army of attendants dispersed to see to last-minute details. “I’ve seen you direct hundreds of men in the rebuilding of Emyn Arnen. You fought at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields at the head of an army! How is it that you’re so nervous about a simple ceremony?”

Tonight, though, there was nothing more to do. All the plans to be made, had been made; all the details to choreograph would be executed flawlessly. Eowyn was quite good at such things. Last year, after the coronation, when Aragorn turned his attention to rebuilding Gondor after the war, it had been the Lady of Rohan who guided Arwen in addressing the long-neglected internal crises of Minas Tirith. She had been indispensable to the queen, who was unused to the faster pace of life of Men. Men did not have centuries to spare and thus were more fractious and demanding than Elves, she had found.

Arwen caught sight of Eowyn pacing in front of the window, silhouetted against the sunset. She was glad she’d told Aragorn to bring Eldarion later when they had supper together; the baby would divert her friend’s attention.

As she drew closer, however, she frowned. Eowyn looked thunderous, and she clenched her arms across her chest in anger as she paced. Something must have gone dreadfully wrong.

“My lady!” Arwen cried. “What has passed?”

Eowyn started; it seemed she had not heard the queen’s knock at the open door. Or perhaps Arwen had yet again done what Faramir once called “that unnerving Elvish thing” by walking so lightly and silently that the Men took no notice until she spoke. “Your Majesty!” Eowyn composed herself quickly, as usual, but the anger lingered in the lines of her body. “My apologies. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Arwen caught her friend’s hand. “Never mind that. What has happened to put you in so foul a temper? If someone has upset some part of the wedding plans, you can tell them that the queen will want a strong word with them.”

That elicited a weak smile from Eowyn, and she softened a little. “You’d best be careful, Majesty; one of these days I’ll take you up on that offer and you’ll have to find out if you _can_ muster a strong word for anyone.”

 _Queen Arwen the Gentle,_ she knew they called her. She talked softly and moved slowly, as her people did – or, her people _before._ Now the Elves were no longer her people, and it still lit a little flame of pain in her heart each time she thought about it. Arwen knew the Men underestimated her, thought her fragile. But she was not docile or weak; Elves just had a different understanding of strength. The willow bowed and bent in the wind, but it was not weak. “I’ll find a way,” she said.

The two of them made a good team together: Eowyn assertive and insightful, Arwen calm and wise. Arwen was dreading the day Faramir took Eowyn off to Ithilien, when Arwen would have to learn to be more bold in the manner of Men. She pulled Eowyn over to a wooden chair. “Sit down, my dear. Tell me who has you so angry.”

Eowyn sat, letting out a long breath. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tall back of the chair. “It’s my brother,” she said at last.

“Eomer?” Eomer had arrived just last week for the festivities. He had promised the King to help him in the rebuilding of Gondor, but he had a responsibility to his own kingdom as well. For the past year, he’d divided his time between Rohan and Gondor. The planting in Rohan was done, and now he would stay until the harvest. “Is there aught wrong in Rohan?”

“No!” Eowyn smiled weakly. “There’s aught wrong with my brother’s _head_ , perhaps.”

“Oh, dear.” This was beginning to sound a bit familiar. Surely not… “What has he gone and done?”

She knew Eowyn was more herself when the other woman thought to offer her guest mead. They sipped from Dwarf-crafted silver goblets, and Eowyn calmed a little more.

“My idiot brother,” she began, grimacing, “decided that, given we have no parents, it was his duty to be… _protective_.”

Chillingly familiar. “Oh no. He didn’t…”

“Threaten Faramir’s life if he did anything to hurt me? Yes. Most insultingly, too.” Eowyn let her head drop into her hands. “As if I were a slip of a girl! As if I can’t look out for myself!”

Arwen couldn’t help it. Her own laugh took her by surprise, not least because she knew _exactly_ how Eowyn was feeling right now. “Men!”

Eowyn looked up, surprised at the laughter, but after a moment her stiff features softened a little and she began to smile. “I’m sure Elves are never so gauche,” she agreed.

Arwen blinked. “Oh. Perhaps I should have said, _Brothers!_ I was _furious_ when Elladan and Elrohir took Aragorn aside, just before the wedding. They told him that if he ever gave me cause to regret becoming mortal, they’d make sure he lived a _very_ long life lamenting his own stupidity.”

That startled Eowyn into her own laughter. “They didn’t! Elladan and Elrohir? They seemed so happy for you at the wedding!”

That little flame of pain, again… Arwen swallowed. “They were, truly.” _Happy for me, but not for themselves. Left to live an eternity without me or Mother. Living on and on through so much loss… it drives some Elves mad._

 _It will not drive_ me _mad._

“I wouldn’t have thought it of them,” Eowyn told her. “Your father, yes. He was always so grim. I could just see him saying something calm and menacing to the king. So subtle that later he’d wonder if it even _was_ a threat.”

Arwen smiled. “Not Father. He’d already gone out of his way to make sure that Estel was worthy. Besides, he didn’t need to threaten.”

“Because he knew the king would be a good husband?”

“That, too. But also because he didn’t have to say it out loud; Estel says that no one is quite so terrifying as my da.”

“I don’t want Faramir to be a good husband out of terror!” Eowyn cried.

“Do you think there’s a danger of that?”

“No, of course not.”

“How did he react to your brother’s outrageous threat?”

Eowyn giggled, a genuine smile lighting her face. An echoing laugh sounded from the door. It was Faramir himself, followed by the king with Eldarion. A slough of servants trailed in after them with their supper, along with a nursemaid who looked rather unhappy that the king was insisting on carrying the baby.

Faramir grinned broadly. “I told Eomer that I was marrying the woman who traveled the Paths of the Dead _and_ _slew the_ _Witch-king of Angmar_. If I had any intention of mistreating the lady of my heart, it was not _his_ quarter from which I should expect retribution.”

Eowyn sprang to her feet, and Faramir ran to kiss his lady love on the cheek. The naked affection on both their faces made Arwen want to look away. Amongst the Elves, such emotions were kept strictly private. Then her own eyes met her husband’s, and she knew she had become more mortal than Elf in this area, at least. Feeling the thrill of daring that became more and more normal each day, she kissed her husband and laid her head on his shoulder, for all the world as if no one could see them. The moment she touched Aragorn, the pain that had been with her since she chose to become mortal faded into the background. They cradled the sleeping Eldarion together, and Arwen told herself firmly not to cry.

Aragorn’s lips quirked up. “Did you tell her about Elladan and Elrohir threatening to chop pieces off of me and throw them into Mount Doom?”

She couldn’t stop smiling back up at him. Loving him had never been a choice, just a rush of wild _yes!_ from her heart. So, then, becoming mortal had never really been a choice either. It was always a foregone conclusion. “Yes. I like Faramir’s response better than yours, though.”

Aragorn laughed, a rich, happy sound. “I should _not_ have humbly promised to be a loving and faithful husband to you?”

“Brothers!” snorted Eowyn, leading Faramir to the table, set for four. “No style. They don’t know how to be properly intimidating.”

“Now Lady Galadrial, _she_ was intimidating,” Aragorn mused, seating himself and looking appreciatively at the simple fare. He disliked formal dinners and had to have too many of them for his tastes.

“My grandmother spoke to you as well?” Arwen hadn’t known that. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

“ _She_ didn’t need to make threats.” Aragorn took a big bite of stew and reached for the bread; his eyes closed in pleasure. “She just appeared in my private quarters without warning and asked if I knew what I was asking of you.”

Arwen paused. “What did you tell her?”

Aragorn looked a little uncomfortable. He, too, had been raised by Elves. “I’ll tell you later. Mithrandir, now… When Mithrandir put in his word, it was just, ‘You’d best appreciate the gift you’ve been given.’”

“And have you?” It was a daring question from Faramir, but so earnest that none could take it awry.

Aragorn’s eyes met Arwen’s, so full of heat and tenderness that it made her tremble. “Every day.”

The four of them had a lovely evening together. No hint of state business was allowed in, a rare pleasure. Eldarion woke up enough to be passed around and admired by all present.

When the royal couple took their leave, Arwen reached for her husband’s hand. For once, there was not a retinue crowding them. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her palm. They walked slowly back to their apartments in the moonlight, holding hands.

About halfway home, they came across Eomer, sprawled on a bench outside his own apartments, looking out over the city below. He stood at their approach, bowing his head respectfully. “Good evening, sire, madam.”

“Good evening,” Aragorn returned. He paused, pulling Arwen to a stop. “We were just visiting with your sister and her fiancé. She, ah… she was rather upset.”

Arwen realized that Aragorn was going to try to be helpful. Perhaps as an apology to her, for not responding as well as Faramir when her own brothers had acted so gauchely?

Eomer looked surprised. “Eowyn is upset, sire? Why?”

“She, ah… Well, you see, she…” In the moonlight, only Arwen could tell that Aragorn’s face had gone bright red. He had never been good at this sort of thing. Leading men, yes, that was his strength. The intricacies of friendship and emotions with his equals, he had less experience with.

She took pity on him and spoke up. “She found it insulting to her bridgegroom that you presumed he would hurt her. She found it insulting to _her_ that you acted as if she couldn’t stand up for herself if he did.” What she wouldn’t give to have had the backbone to say that to her own brothers back when it happened.

A dozen emotions passed over Eomer’s face – startlement, chagrin, annoyance, shame… “But my lady, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t stand up for her?”

The Elven Arwen, the Arwen of just last year, would have simply dismissed this as a mortal missing the point. She would not have let it touch her, would not have responded; would have drifted away. But she had made a choice, and she too had been given a gift. She had not just chosen love; she had also chosen to be a mortal queen.

“You would be the kind of brother who trusts her. Trusts her to know her own mind and trusts her to ask for her own help if she needs it.”

Aragorn nodded solemnly, squeezing her hand. “You owe your sister an apology, my friend.”

They left him there, confused but thoughtful in the moonlight, and made their way back to the royal apartments.

“What _did_ you tell Grandmama Galadriel when she asked if you knew what you were asking of me?” Arwen asked, laying Eldarion in his basket beside the bed.

Aragorn shrugged out of his tunic and trousers and climbed into bed, opening his arms to her. Being held in his arms tasted like Rivendell, like Lothlorien, like her family departed across the sea: the pleasure sweeter for the pain.

“The truth,” Aragorn said simply. “That the sort of love that we have cannot be asked, only given. That I would not for anything ask to cause you any pain, but that I could not offer you such an insult as to spurn your choice. That I will strive always to be more worthy of your sacrifice.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead.

“And I will strive always to be more worthy of your love.” Smiling, the Evenstar fell asleep in the arms of her husband.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to lferion for prodding and beta! This came out of a conversation with my sweetie over whether all three extant Elven ring bearers would have given Aragorn the shovel talk prior to the wedding.


End file.
